


Veritas Nunquam Perit

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AND YOU WILL NEVER CHANGE MY MIND, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, American Revolution, Arthur's POV, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied Violence, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not a Sexual Thing, Omega America (Hetalia), Omega Verse, Omegas are BADASS, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: The truth is one of old stories, whispering on the wind; those no storybook of ink and parchment would ever reveal.  The truth is ancient, primitive, and incomprehensible.  The truth was lost to time.The truth...that Omegas weren’t kept away from the battlefield for their safety.They were kept away for that of others.Arthur thought he might understand that now.





	Veritas Nunquam Perit

**Author's Note:**

> This thing literally started as a two hundred word drabble that came to me while I was talking with a friend, and BAM, here it is! I hope it turned out alright!
> 
> Also, the title is supposed to mean "The Truth Never Dies" but I don't know Latin all that much, so please tell me if I got it wrong!

            Everyone thought they kept Omegas away from the battlefield to keep them safe.

            They thought Omegas were weak, they’re so delicate.  Pale and perfect and gentle - they’d faint at the sight of war.  They’d revile the wrath that took over Alphas and touched Betas to enter the fray and dance a deadly duel with a dastardly foe they’ve been taught to hate.  They couldn’t possible justify the trials of war in their pure hearted minds, and so there was no way that an Omega could look on the tides of war and do anything but stand aside.

            That was not the truth.

            They thought Omegas were liabilities on the battlefields - they’d never seen such violence, or such hate. They’re gentle, sensitive creatures, truly, and so they must only be surrounded by the warmth and the happiness of the world.  No violence must touch them, no battle and blood lust would taint them.  No.  War was not for the gentle, kind, loving Omega, who needed an Alpha’s protection.

            That was not the truth either.

            The truth is one of old stories, whispering on the wind; those no storybook of ink and parchment would ever reveal.  The truth is ancient, primitive, and incomprehensible.  The truth was lost to time.

            The truth...that Omegas weren’t kept away from the battlefield for their safety.

            They were kept away for that of _others_.

            Arthur thought he might understand that now.

            The fighting was intense and vicious – there was no mercy from his troops as they collided with the startled rebel forces.  They’d planned and executed this surprise attack with relentless determination, driven from their recent victories to push the damned rebels as far as they could until they had surrendered.

            He hadn’t expected Alfred to be amongst them.

            Alfred was an _Omega_ , a young one at barely 15, and he knew that other than those who’d hidden their scent and tried their best to fool the recruiters, there were no Omegas in any army he’d ever encountered.  Washington was a traditionalist, he knew; a gentleman, and an older Alpha who treated younger Omegas like the children they likely were to him.  There was _no way_ he would allow a young, barely of age Omega to walk the battlefield while there were Alphas using the mind frame and the pheromones of a rut to push their bloodlust to new heights, or Betas sneaking through to take out those unaffected by the scent.

            But he was there, sitting perched atop a branch on the crest of the hill in front of them, and the rebel forces retreated frantically until they were all behind him.  They formed a defensive wall at the young teen’s back, tense and unsure, but they refused to budge even as the red-coated forces laughed at their cowardice and their “pathetic attempt at defense.”

            And that was when Arthur first felt it.

            He could feel the metaphorical flex of the aura rising in the air, whipping around them all, thought it kept close to its source.  He could smell the familiar scent – sunshine and thunder, the crisp scent of the air after a hurricane with an underlying floral tint that made his parental instincts whine – beginning to permeate the air around them all.  He could see how it riled the alphas and the more sensitive betas, who couldn’t understand why they were agitated.  Hell, he could practically _see_ the way the whirls of pheromones curled tightly around the one that had released them, waiting.

            The scent in the air curled – predatory, anticipatory – and the Alphas at the front of the line roared their challenge to the scent so subtly taunting them.  Arthur felt a surge of protectiveness rise within him as the scent grew, potent and heavy as the air carried it lightly over the grounds – only a warning, just the slightest of foreshadowing of what was to come; the only notice they were going to get.

            _Turn back_ , the wind whispered, and only Arthur could hear it.

            He couldn’t blame his men, he realized, nor their self-control.  Had it been any other Omega at the helm – any other with that potency of scent, fury and drive in their aura – then he would’ve fallen victim to it just as they had.

            That’s what his mother had said, he remembered now.

            Three times Rome had come to his Mother, he remembered, wee though he had been.  Three times he’d asked, cajoled, or tried to seduce her, tried to add her, add them to his ever-growing Empire.  And three times, Mother had denied him flat out.  Rome had been furious, but the land favored Mother, and so he’d retreated, swearing to the gods above that he’d return, and if she didn’t concede to him willingly, then he would take her land, take her children, and destroy everything that she was until all that was left for her children was what he made for them.

            The constant invasions had nearly broken them; they’d certainly fractured the family.  Cymru, off to fight the Romans, Eire run off to their neighboring isle, Alba the reluctant caretaker of a tiny Albion, who’d been young and naïve and _blind_ because he thought his mother could fix everything in the world.  And she’d certainly tried.

            The threat against her children had hurt her where nothing else could reach; she left her children where she knew them to be safe and met Rome on the battlefield herself.

            Arthur, who was England _BritaniaAlbionBràthairArthur **Father**_ now and only little Albion then, had only heard of what had happened in the whispers of the trees and the sorrow of the land.  His mother had raged against Rome, drawn from within her the battle fury fit for a legion of trained omegas, and knocked his forces _down_ – dead or dying or fled – and Rome, who’d nearly succumbed to the fury that had destroyed his army, fled.

            It would’ve been a hard task for an Omega in their prime, young and powerful and driven.  But their mother was _old_ ; she had borne four children – Alphas all – and had known that within the next millennia, she’d pass on the baton to them and allow herself to fade, as was the task of all ancient nations.  She was not a well spring of energy, as she’d once been, so the rigor had drained her like it had never had before.  And when Rome returned once more, the battle fury she’d loosed against him had sent him fleeing, his men slaughtered or fled in her wake…but it had killed her too.

            Slowly, steadily, but surely, and in a way that Albion hadn’t had the ability to understand yet.  He’d been too young.

            Then Rome had returned, vicious and triumphant because he’d _known_ , like all the Empires had at that point, that Britannia had fallen in defense of her isles, of her children.  And Cymru, the eldest of his brothers, set down his shepherd’s crook and took up arms.  He’d helped Eire flee to the Isle he’d been born of, away from Rome’s reach.  He’d helped Alba find a path up to the border between his and Albion’s lands – far North enough that it would take Rome a while to penetrate, but South enough that Cymru could send word if the worst was on its way – where he could help raise the youngest of them until Cymru returned.

            But they hadn’t anticipated that Rome _knew_ how to fight them, had known they would split; and even as he and Alba had raced for the Highlands that his brother’s people guarded viciously, they hadn’t anticipated that the vainglorious old Empire wouldn’t be at the battle.

            He hadn’t come to take the isles.  He’d come, as he’d said once, long ago, for _them_.  And while the others were unaware, Rome had stolen Albion from underneath their watch.

            It had taken nearly a century for his brothers to find him again, and by then he’d forgotten, as the world had, of the Battle Fury that an enraged Omega could wield.  They’d forgotten because the victors of the world couldn’t forget the humiliation they’d suffered at the hands of those they’d once considered _weak_.  First Carthage, then Britannia; both who’d denied him the ultimate victory and satisfaction.  Carthage, who’s land would never again grow, faded with a bloodied smile on his face, denying Rome that last satisfaction of conquest.  Britannia’s Albion had been taken, but her vengeance would come with _his_ conquest, and her children’s defiance that made Rome’s control of her lands difficult at _best_.  The Empire would stand for neither, and so they forgot.

            He saw her rage and her fury banked in bright blue eyes, and knew the only thing that would spare him was that his son loved him still.  His son, his beautiful, free minded, sky-eyed, gentle hearted, mischievous and _peace driven_ son.  His son, his Alfred _hated_ when they fought, even if they fought justly.  He broke up fights between his uncles and his father, and they used to call the cheerful child their little peacemaker.  And Arthur had never questioned that title, never reconsidered it, even though he _knew_ that Alfred used to start fights with the other boys in town when they said or did something he couldn’t stand.

            They called Omegas peacemakers, but every peacemaker he'd known made war...he wondered how they'd forgotten that.

            He, his king, and his people had threatened _Alfred_ ’s children, Alfred’s people, Alfred’s freedom, and it was something his bright-eyed son with his will of steel would never let pass.  And now they would suffer the consequences for it.

            They would suffer for forgetting the strength of an Omega’s rage to protect those they love.

* * *

            _Sometimes they wondered, the Omegas of old – the timeless ones, the ageless ones, with kind eyes and soft lips, with calloused palms and a ruthless, relentless fire burning in their hearts – if they should let the world forget, as it had before.  They know – with gleaming eyes and bloodied smiles – that one day…the truth will return._

_The truth that Omegas were the kindest creatures at the home…and the fiercest, blood-thirstiest, most devastating ones in the defense of that which they loved._

_They remembered, those ageless ones, of the battlefields they’d once taken.  They remembered the numberless scores of Alphas – tired, aching, but fierce and determined in the throes of battle lust – who’d dominated the fighting.  They remembered the Betas who’d swooped in to down stubborn Alphas who were defeated but not dead, but who had no chance against another fierce opponent.  They remembered the blood and gore staining the fields, which drained them voraciously in its thirst.  But, most of all, they remembered the Omegas._

_They were dainty little things, sometimes, who looked like they could be knocked over by a stiff wind. They were tall and voluptuous, catching the eye of every ill-minded Alpha._

_And they cut through the armies that besieged them without resistance._

_A single Omega, one of the ancient ones recalled, had stood atop a hill facing their enemy.  One enemy Alpha had called out a jeer as they approached, and their enemy retreated to behind the peaceful, smiling Omega. The enemy Alphas had laughed, jeered – cries of cowardice and leers of lust twining through the air – and then, the Omega struck._

_Pheromones were released, saturating the air at such a rate that the Alphas in the frontline went down, almost instantly.  The wave of aura spread like plague across the enemy forces, twisting and twining over the currents of the fortuitous wind, and downing Alphas and Betas alike to its sheer intent.  In seconds, every enemy Alpha and Beta was down, entranced and trapped, unable to move.  In minutes, as the aura magnified and the intent turned malicious, they were unconscious.  The stronger willed, strong minded ones held out longer, but even they succumbed to the basest of instincts they’d never known had existed.  The aura retreated, and the army behind the Omega flooded forward to capture or kill their now-helpless enemies._

_And the Omega had still been smiling._

            Alfred looked at the enemies before him, ready to overwhelm and devastate his allies, his people, his _children_ who sheltered behind him.  He met his father's knowing, resigned green eyes from across the battlefield.  And he smiled. 


End file.
